Once in Autumn came a dream;
The white Herald of the North,
Faring West to ford my stream,
Passed my lodge and bade me forth;
Glad I rose and went with him,
With my shoulder in his hand;
The auroral world grew dim,
And the idle harvest land.
Then I saw the warder lifting
From its berg the Northern bar,
And eternal snows were drifting
On the wind-bleak plains of Har.
“Listen humbly,” said my guide.
“I am drear, for I am death,”
Whispered Snow; but Wind replied,
“I outlive thee by a breath,
I am Time.” And then I heard,
Dearer than all wells of dew,
One gray golden-shafted bird
Hail the uplands; so I knew
Spring, the angel of our sorrow,
Tarrying so seeming far,
Should return with some long morrow
In the calling vales of Har.
TO RICHARD LOVELACE
Ah, Lovelace, what desires have sway
In the white shadow of your heart,
Which no more measures day by day,
Nor sets the years apart?
How many seasons for your sake
Have taught men over, age by age,
“Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage!”—